


A Dark World Aches for a Splash of the Sun

by lusilly



Category: Glee
Genre: Blangst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Killer Blam, M/M, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wanna kill whoever did this to him."</p><p>Set during 5.15 "Bash." Blaine is devastated, but he's also angry as hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark World Aches for a Splash of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I finally caught up on Glee. Although I really disliked this episode, the second Sam said he wanted to kill the guys who hurt Kurt my mind was immediately transported back to 2011-era Killer Klaine. Since Kurt was out of commission, Sam had to step up to the plate, as it were, thus producing: Killer Blam.
> 
> Enjoy.

            “I wanna kill whoever did this to him.”

            Blaine’s eyes were fixed on Kurt, soaking in every detail of his delicately bruised skin, the stitches like tiny ribbons sewn across his brow.

            Sam turned to leave with the others.

            Blaine’s hand flinched away from Kurt’s irresistibly, drawn back like the cocking of a gun, his tight grasp on Sam’s wrist bursting as loud as a gunshot in the small hospital room. Sam looked down at him, blinking back tears in his eyes.

            Blaine didn’t look up.

            “Me too,” he breathed.

\----

            It was, all things considered, a hell of a lot easier than Blaine had ever dreamed it might be.

            Turned out that the kid Kurt had defended – the one who called 911 – knew the attackers. It pissed Blaine off that he hadn’t named them in the official police report, and Blaine had almost made a scene right there in the hospital waiting room before Sam grabbed him and held him by the shoulders, tightly, until the conversation was over. “We just wanna know who it was,” said Sam, as Blaine stood there with his teeth gritted, pretending he wasn’t itching to get his own knuckles wet with blood. “And where they usually hang out, you know, so – so we can make sure this doesn’t happen again. So he knows if he’s ever headed into unsafe territory, y’know?”

            Blaine was not convinced the kid believed him, but he told them either way. Told them about how those guys lived in a building uptown, where they chain-smoked and catcalled passing women and once in a while, when they got bored, beat up anyone who looked at them wrong.

            On the subway home – Burt got there in the evening, and he insisted that Blaine go and get some rest – Sam reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Blaine’s knee. “Nice work,” he said.

            Blaine glanced at him, leaning back against the seat. “What?”

            “You spooked that kid,” said Sam. “Looked like you were two seconds away from going all _Dark Knight_ Joker on his ass the whole time.” He gave a funny sort of grin and asked, in his best and most unsettling Heath Ledger impression, “ _Wanna know how I got these scars?_ ” He patted Blaine’s knee, obviously impressed. “Didn’t know you could be so tough.”

            “I’m tough,” said Blaine. He was a little too tired to be belligerent, but he felt the first hot prickle of anger even through his malaise. “I was in the Dalton-”

            “-Fight Club, I know. You do know that it becomes, like, significantly less cool without the whole don’t-talk-about-it thing, right?”

            Blaine looked at him for a moment, arms crossed. The subway car shook and jolted back and forth. The lights flickered. Blaine tore his eyes away from Sam, instead staring dully forwards, meeting his own gaze reflected in the dark window across from him.

            Mercedes was waiting up for them. When Sam shut the door behind them, she said, “Hey boos,” but Blaine gave no indication that he heard her. She gave Sam a knowing look, and he held up a finger then pointed upstairs, silently communicating that he was going to help Blaine up to his room. Without a word, she nodded, and let them go.

            In Blaine’s room, he shed his coat and scarf as Sam quietly closed the door, and locked it. For a moment neither of them moved, Blaine standing by his bed facing away from Sam, Sam with his back pressed against the door.

            And then Blaine turned around.

            Lowly, he said, “Here’s how we’re going to do this. We can’t wait until Kurt’s out of the hospital.” At the wary look on Sam’s face, Blaine shook his head to silence any protests. “If we do, then we’re never gonna do it, let’s be honest. I don't need anything but my hands,” he continued. “But I think you should find a baseball bat. Aluminum.”

            “What?” asked Sam doubtfully. “You’re four inches shorter than me, you should get the bat-”

            “No,” said Blaine stubbornly. “I want to use my fists. It’ll be…better that way.”

            Sam watched him, but there was no pain in his eyes, only a steely determination. “OK,” he said. “That gives us, what? Twenty-four hours?”

            “I say we go right now.”

            “Dude, no. You need some rest.”

            “I’m not tired.”

            “You’re exhausted,” said Sam firmly. “Anyone would be. You haven’t slept since yesterday, and you’ve been right next to Kurt worrying the whole day long. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten a stress heart attack or something.”

            “This isn’t funny,” said Blaine.

            “I didn’t say it was.”

            There was a ringing silence. Blaine’s jaw clenched and unclenched, his desperation to do something clashing with his rational understanding that Sam had a point.

            “I can’t stay here,” he said, finally, unable to keep quiet. “I can’t just sit here and – sleep peacefully – when he’s only sleeping because of the _morphine_ they’re pumping into his body so he isn’t in agonizing pain-”

            “Blaine,” said Sam, moving forward from the door to reach out and take Blaine’s shoulders. “Calm down.”

            “How can I calm down?” demanded Blaine. “How am I supposed to just sit here twiddling my thumbs when the assholes who did this to him are out there, like nothing happened? How can I _possibly_ be calm, Sam?”

            “You’re freaking out,” said Sam quietly, holding his shoulders tightly. “Hey. Listen to me.”

            “You’re not listening to _me_ , I _told_ you, I’m not gonna – I can’t just let them _go_ -”

            “ _I know_ ,” hissed Sam, shaking Blaine by the shoulders, glancing behind them at the door. “Keep quiet, all right? I said I’d help you, didn’t I? Just quiet down before Mercedes hears you, OK?”

            Sam had stopped shaking Blaine, but Blaine was still trembling underneath his hands.

            “Look,” said Sam. His voice was barely above a whisper. “We’ll go and get them. I promise. But we gotta keep it a secret, remember? Right?”

            Blaine couldn’t look him in the eye. “Right,” he mumbled.

            “OK, and why, Blaine? Why do we have to keep it a secret?”

            He didn’t answer right away.

            Sam shook him again. “Blaine.”

            “Kurt can’t find out,” he murmured, finally meeting Sam’s gaze. “He’d be…mad.”

            “He’d be _super_ mad,” agreed Sam, nodding his head. “Which is totally unfair, because we’re just gonna do exactly what he was trying to do. Except we’re gonna even the odds a little bit, with your killer MMA skills and my baseball bat. Which I don’t currently have, but I’ll find one somehow even if I have to jack one from a Little League dugout. OK? So while I take care of that, you need to sleep.”

            Blaine began, “I don’t want to-” but Sam cut him off, shaking his head.

            “Your fists are gonna be absolutely useless if your head isn’t on right,” he said. “Sleep. I promise I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you. I’m gonna do this with you. I swear to God. For Kurt. But you gotta get some rest, man.”

            There was a tense moment of silence; Blaine’s hands were curled into fists, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

            Relenting, he pulled himself away from Sam, and collapsed to sit on the side of his bed.

            “OK,” said Sam, with a deep breath. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. I promise.”

            “Before it gets light,” said Blaine.

            “I know.”

            When Blaine said no more, Sam turned to leave. Then, from the bed, he spoke up.

            “Sam.”

            Sam turned around. Blaine looked up at him. “You said killer,” he said.

            “I’m going after them with an aluminum baseball bat, Blaine,” said Sam shortly. “I know what we’re doing. Before we go, you gotta be sure that you are too.”

            With that, he left.

\----

            Here’s the good thing about Sunday mornings before the sun rises: even as the church bells begin to ring, some men, mean, burly, bigoted men, are still stumbling home drunk. It’s almost too easy, Blaine thinks, leaning against the wall across the street with his eyes peering through the gray veil of darkness at a group staggering down the sidewalk. They guffaw at each other, puffed up in their pride and with the scent of violence probably still rich and intoxicating in their throats. It almost isn’t far, Blaine thinks, and then he glances at Sam and sees the hardness in his eyes and is reminded of the hairline fracture above Kurt’s eye and the pallid serenity of a medically-induced coma on his beautiful face. Anger sparks in his belly like a fire. In his pockets, he clenches his wrapped hands, and then takes them out to pull up his hoodie, and he crosses the street.

            Dalton Fight Club was kid’s play, and Blaine knew this. So after all those years of learning technique, of building upper-body strength and knowing where to land a blow to end a fight legally, to cause the least permanent damage, it was an incredible hell of a relief to throw all of that aside and forget about it completely. To fight for the sheer unholy delight of it. To fight with intent to injure. To cause pain. To forget about form and skill and sport, and take his fists and throw them into skulls over and over and over again with nothing but brute force until it looks like the set of a movie, ketchup-red blood staining the wrappings on his hands.

            Sam, being the Southern gentleman that he is, avoids the face mostly. Ribs and knees and one satisfying _crack_ against a shinbone, at which Blaine had almost laughed, stood up straight and, panting, held out a fist which Sam gleefully bumped.

            The dull gray of predawn begins to fade into a golden early morning, and when the sun’s fiery halo on the horizon is just barely visible, streaking orange and pink across the sky, Blaine breathes, “OK. OK. That’s enough. Let’s go.”

            Sam swings his bat up, leaning it against his shoulder and glancing down at their work in disgust. “Next time,” he advises them, although Blaine isn’t sure how many of them can still hear, “remember this.”

            Blaine isn't convinced that there will be a next time for all of these guys, but he doesn’t try and correct Sam. Instead he starts to unravel the wrappings around his knuckles; the blood stained onto them is a dark, rich crimson now, oxygenated in the biting New York air.

            It is the beginning of spring, but the cold snap has yet to end. Despite this, as Blaine drops the wrappings into a dumpster, listening to a door open and somebody scream on the stoop of the apartment building behind them, warmth pooling in his bruised fingers and bursting in his heart, it somehow seems like winter is already long gone.

\----

            The next time he visits Kurt, Burt’s still there, holding his son’s hand. Blaine can see him shaking, so he waits outside the door for a few minutes. For one moment, Blaine imagines what his own father would do, if he were in Kurt’s position; but he doesn’t have to imagine that, because he remembers being fourteen and feeling his parents squeezing his hands tightly, but being unable to return the pressure through the fog of exhaustion and medication and pain far away that he can somehow still feel, but which the drugs keep at bay, so that even if he can feel it, it won’t hurt him. That summer Blaine’s dad had roped him into that pet project, rebuilding Grandpa’s old ’79 Chevy. He hadn’t lied to Burt that day in the tire store, when Blaine had confided that he always thought the point of that project was to see if getting his hands a little dirty might straighten him out a little bit, toughen him up. He might have failed to mention, however, the broken nose and cracked ribs, the stitches on his forehead, and the fact that, given the evidence of Blaine's injuries, to Mr. Anderson “straight” meant “safe.”

            Still, he waits outside the hospital room door. When Burt finally does appear, it’s with a look in his eye that Blaine knows very well.

            He closes the door and, roughly, he asks Blaine, “You find the guys who did this?”

            Blaine meets his eye. He nods.

            Before the anger pulsing in Burt’s gut can slip up and burst out through his mouth, Blaine lowers his voice and he says, “We took care of them. Sam and me.”

            Burt watches him for one uncertain beat.

            He glances at the door, then back at Blaine, then nods his head in a little bow.

            “Good,” he says.


End file.
